


take it in your heart now, lover

by kingslayer (amurgin)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25393516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amurgin/pseuds/kingslayer
Summary: “Hey, you’re the guy moving downstairs, right? The florist?” He’s quick to bolt down the winding staircase, more metal, more rust. A hazard, yes. ThatisSylvain’s trade. He sells cheap thrills at a flat-rate, but a dedicated fanbase stuffing his tip jar full every other week or so almost makes it worth the trouble of combing through a few dozen life stories. His eagerness for a break shows when not two beats expire before he is already downstairs. “Need any help moving? My afternoon’s free.”“Slow day for business?”“Something like that. No bad Christians looking to get tattooed on a Sunday.” That joke earns him a smile, small though it may be.Sylvain is a Disaster. Hilda is Gay. Together, they are Disaster Gay. Linhardt, as usual, is tired.Written forSincerity: a Sylvain Gautier Zine.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	take it in your heart now, lover

Little by little, ashes gather on the ground beneath, peppering his shadow in speckles of light grey. 

Smoking is a bad habit, but littering is poor form, poorer manners. He’s loath to think of what his mother would say if she could see him now, years later, the circles underneath his eyes as dark as burnt tobacco. He can’t help it though. The past week has made a mockery out of him, wrung a whole pack of cigarettes out of him, leaving him only one last light.

He’d quit. 

_Really,_ he would, but smoking is hardly the problem here. 

With a sigh that reeks of nicotine and feels like the end of the world, Sylvain steps forward, settling over the railing of the balcony. He drags his tongue along his teeth, relishing the chipper clink of the barbell, the mouthfeel of metal against enamel—Bad Habit #2. 

The cigarette burns, shedding ashes in a light flurry. Except it’s the middle of summer, and the promise of a winter’s relief is long months ahead. His black shirt (an unfortunate choice made in a thoughtless rush) sticks to his overheated chest crudely, like another skin for him to feel confined to. _That_ is the problem. Smoking is just his way of rubbing salve on a tumor. 

He often loses himself this way, passing minutes in the slow meander of the charred ring eating away at the tip of his cigarette. It grows closer, sometimes to his finger, sometimes to his lip, but Sylvain has never been one for denying himself a good thrill, no matter how small. 

So, _no_ , it’s not an addiction, at least not in the proper sense of the word. He remains above that, some semblance of pride still lingering in that name. _Gautier._ A relic of a past life. 

But others can’t be expected to see things through his eyes. How could anyone?

“Hello?”

This is an unfamiliar voice that calls to him, so unfamiliar that Sylvain dismisses it instantly. The shop is closed for the day—one of the few perks of being a partner in your own business. Turns out, however, that peace and quiet is very much outside of his budget.

“I am, as a matter of fact, addressing you.” The wave of a hand signals Sylvain’s eyes down below. 

A stranger, in every manner, shape, and form, catches his attention (and perhaps something a little more). Sylvain narrows his gaze. He can make out the man’s features with an alarming precision even from where he’s standing on the second floor, but the reason as to why there should be any business between them still eludes him. Judging by the lack of tattoos and piercings, Sylvain is certain that he can’t be a client, and _if_ they were involved at any point, there is little doubt he would have forgotten somebody as effortlessly beautiful. 

Lush tresses of a deep verdant descend in steps down his shoulders, curling inwards at the tips, while the excess strands are pulled loosely to the back and bundled into a messy bun. He is by no means the picture of perfection, but eyes of steel blue hold _Sylvain_ in scrutiny, as though _he_ were the one out of place. 

Worst of all? Say, maybe he’s been a little lonely lately, because the look he’s held in sends a pulse down his spine, a twitch to his fingers that melts his iron grip on the cigarette. 

After a pause, Sylvain raises a hand, thumb aimed at his chest, and the man surrenders a groan in exchange, though his face betrays no such depth of emotion.

“Yes. That would be you, wouldn’t it?”

“Depends on who’s asking.” _Good_. He’s feeling cheeky, a little more like his older self. 

“I can excuse your proclivity for self-destruction, but I’d be remiss not to ask you to mind where you dispose of your ashes.”

“Ah! Sorry about that.” Sylvain lets go of a chuckle. From where, he does not know, but he laughs a little, smudging the cigarette out against the rusted, metal railing. Surely, Hilda won’t notice. 

It dawns on him, now that he’s finally looking, that a rather hefty truck parked out front. 

“Hey, you’re the guy moving downstairs, right? The florist?” He’s quick to bolt down the winding staircase, more metal, more rust. A hazard, yes. That _is_ Sylvain’s trade. He sells cheap thrills at a flat-rate, but a dedicated fanbase stuffing his tip jar full every other week or so almost makes it worth the trouble of combing through a few dozen life stories. His eagerness for a break shows when not two beats expire before he is already downstairs. “Need any help moving? My afternoon’s free.”

“Slow day for business?”

“Something like that. No bad Christians looking to get tattooed on a Sunday.” That joke earns him a smile, small though it may be.

“Well” _,_ the man glances to the side, eyelashes following in a flutter with Sylvain in tow. “Between the three gentlemen and myself, I doubt we’re short of hands.” 

“You sure?” And maybe Sylvain’s not the only one feeling lonely, or maybe he really is just an overgrown muscle suit because his soon-to-be neighbor yields. 

“I suppose there is plenty of work left to do inside, if you’re willing.” 

He doesn’t wait before heading through the glass door of the shop, leaving it free to close behind him, were it not for Sylvain, _eager-and-one-bad-habit-past-desperate_ Sylvain, catching it firmly in his hand. 

“Sooooo, am I going to get your name anytime soon? Or would you rather I beg?”

There is a glint of mischief in the smile he receives. Not a peace offering, no, but an invitation. Stretched lips and crinkled eyes. By no small miracle, Sylvain loves games. He is a player, through and through, and being played—well, _that_ is it’s own brand of pleasure. 

Behind him, the door trips the bell up, sends it clinking with the shuffle of steel-toed boots and boxes shoved along the floor. The florist responds in kind, scrambling behind the counter in search of something, and returning, at long last, with a boxcutter in hand. Together, they entertain the silence awhile, tearing tape off of boxes or cutting them open, and when the quiet finally breaks, it is not by way of their lips. 

A hand wanders over unprompted, fingertips cool to the touch as he draws out petal after petal on Sylvain’s skin. The inked sleeve that covers his forearm is not unlike a tableau, a memory frozen in time, and yet, the flowers begin to move, blooming anew under a novel hand. 

“Black satin dahlias.” His eyes pore over the tattoo in a steady stream, and Sylvain, flushed all the way to the edge of his collar, melts to his spot like wax to a love-letter, leaving his heart behind to drown in the sound of its own beat. “How exquisite. As for my name…” 

Linhardt is quick to become a fixture in Sylvain’s life, though not by his own choice. 

Lunch breaks, slack periods, days off—he is always on Linhardt’s doorstep, a brown bag in his hand. Sylvain has been a regular at Ashe and Dedue’s bakery down the street for a few years now, but even they’re getting tired of seeing his freckled face. Problem is, Linhardt likes sweet treats, and a good number of them, too. Fruit tarts in the morning, parfaits at noon, an éclair at his two o’clock break, brownies, croissants, anything and everything Sylvain can scrounge up. That might just be the only way Linhardt tolerates him.

"All these flowers and not a single one could ever hope to match your beauty." Sylvain's arms sweep over the bouquets, flowers perking up at the promise of his touch, peeking upwards before shying away like maidens fearful of burning beneath the sun's kiss. He sweeps in a wide arc, conductor leading an orchestra that settles in a bright spotlight on the protagonist of his heartfelt opera.

A few steps later, Sylvain is there, admiration in his hand—a carnation in full bloom, barely red and so divine, god-touched from root and up the stem and along the fringes of its petals. For his own part, Linhardt, unimpressed and just a tad too tired, sizes him up in broad strokes.

"I’d prefer that you leave the flowers out of your two-bit play. _"_ His is the softest touch upon Sylvain's fingers, fleeting and brief, like the kiss of a breeze to the lip of his knuckles. Between them, the flower shakes uselessly, forgotten now that their eyes have settled on each other. 

If Sylvain was ever good at something, _really_ good at something, it would be tempting people into betraying themselves to him. Leaning over the wooden countertop in a display of muscle, Sylvain becomes too much, him and his wide shoulders, thick biceps and hearty chest. Like this, he gains a rise out of Linhardt, who follows the plunge of his shirt as if spellbound.

"But I brought snacks. Should I take them back or…?" A smug grin grows brasher by the second, eyes gleaming, a pair of twinkling stars playful in their childish celebration of a cheated victory. Still, there is something terribly irresistible about him that not even Linhardt can deny, something deeper than the three-layered mille-feuille Sylvain’s brought over.

“Oh, hand it over already.” He snatches the bag Sylvain’s been dangling over his head with dangerous accuracy, leaving him empty-handed, but with a wide-toothed smile that satisfies every want he’s ever had. And while Linhardt makes quick work of spoiling his loot, Sylvain watches, eyes of burnt hazel and undertones of molten amber poring over all the features of his face. 

“Anybody ever tell you you’re pretty?”

Linhardt looks up curiously, irises aglow. Pastry flakes and confectioners sugar line his lips messily, and Sylvain can’t help thinking of a few different things he could do with that.

“Amongst other things.” There is a pause as he indulges himself in the last bite, taking another moment to wipe his mouth clean with something that is decidedly not Sylvain's lips. _1001 Ways to Initiate a Kiss for Dummies_ and somehow he missed out on the most obvious one. “Say, Sylvain. Why are you always here?” 

His tone is by no means confrontational when he pops the question, but Sylvain is taken by surprise nonetheless. Though he only falters half a step behind, his retreat goes much further. The smile on his face breaks, lips shattering into a grimace he cannot suppress.

“Why would you ask that?”

“Surely, someone like you must have better things to do, no?” Linhardt’s eyes flash silver, blunt like the edge of a butter knife, but his words cut cleanly. A name in someone else's mouth, a signature on a piece of paper, pictures on a screen bleeding blue light down retinas. _Someone;_ that’s all Sylvain will ever be. And it hurts. 

He supposes, though, that things were always meant to turn out this way. Because the one thing Sylvain’s known all his life is that he’s not worth it. So, he does what worthless things do best and disappears.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” 

When he turns to walk away, despite not meeting Linhardt’s gaze, Sylvain thinks he would have recognized it. His mother might have looked at him that way, once before, frigid and unforgiving as he walked out on their family.

The door closes on his heels, bell echoing behind him.

"Your boyfriend's here, Syl!" Slipping her head through the narrow crack in the doorway, Hilda catches Sylvain elbow-deep in a drawing. He peeks up just in time to watch the door open all the way, revealing Linhardt behind her. 

"Thank you, Hilda." With a soft sigh, he turns his attention to Sylvain, eyes instantly drawn to the sketchbook spread open before him. "You're working on something new."

"It’s an older piece, actually." Sylvain shuffles nervously, rushing to cover the page with his forearms. For entirely different reasons, this does little to placate Linhardt. “Thought it was time for some maintenance.”

"Don’t be modest! He's been struck by inspiration ever since leaving your shop, Lin!" As always, Hilda works quickly, the nickname rolling off her tongue naturally. _"'Oh, Hilda. I am positively over the moon'_ , he says. _'You should see how superb the florist downstairs is.'_ " Her little performance is punctuated by a subtle dip, spine arching backwards as a hand comes up to rest against her forehead. Sylvain sees to it that her show is a short one, grabbing one of the decorative pillows behind him and throwing it straight at her head. 

"Don't you have nipples to pierce?"

"Aww, but you didn’t make an appointment, sweet cheeks." She taunts him with a pout before disappearing back to whatever hellhole she crawled out of. This time around, hell doesn't follow suit. In her absence, all they are left with is a whole lot of awkwardness Sylvain can hardly stand. He's not sure why Linhardt is wasting his time with him any longer, but a part of him expects a thorough scolding. Somewhere within, a child is cowering at the foot of his bed, cowering with anticipation at the opening of the door, all the horrors that will follow, the hurt and—

“I’m sorry." But it never comes. From a few feet away, Linhardt looks just as lost, just as tangled up in this web of regret and uncertainty. "I didn’t mean to—It wasn’t my place to question your intentions.” Except it was. He had every reason to doubt Sylvain, because not even he knows what it is that he truly wants. 

“It’s not a big deal. Really.”

“Isn’t it?" At the peak of his voice, the distance between them shrinks. There is a note of anger to his words that pierces Sylvain and everything else that's been holding him back, cutting him loose from his strings. "You come out of nowhere, like some—some absolute dreamboat, and you flirt with me relentlessly day in, day out, without so much as asking me out once? Do you have any balls whatsoever or did they shrivel up and fall out of a lack of oxygen from your impossibly tight jeans?”

Sylvain falters back into his seat, mouth slightly agape as he watches dumbfounded. Admittedly, Linhardt chewing him out is a little hot. 

_Okay,_ it’s _really_ hot. 

“Well?”

"To be fair, you're the one that came out of nowhere."

It's not the time to be picking a fight, but Sylvain laughs nonetheless. He concedes in other ways, standing up to come meet Linhardt halfway, where Sylvain can use that last bit of pride left within him to face Linhardt properly. 

"That's not—That's not the point."

“You're right. Linhardt von Hevring.” Smitten as he is, Sylvain goes down on one knee before asking, “May I take you on a date?”

The smile he receives in response is priceless, everything he never knew he wanted laid before him for the taking. 

“And here I thought you were going to make me beg.” 

Their first date together is hardly what Sylvain would have called ideal just a few days ago, but Linhardt has a way about him that can elevate even the most mundane sights to insurmountable heights. That is how they had ended up seated on the chilly wooden floor of his studio apartment, backs pressed against Sylvain’s couch, Linhardt curled up into his side like a lazy cat.

He’s not sure when it was that his past became the hot topic of the evening, but with Linhardt’s fingers tracing petals unseen upon his chest, Sylvain finds that speaking comes a little easier. His voice spills past the rim of his lips unhindered, flowing freely, quietly, into the late night hours.

“I wanted something real for once in my life.” His laughter is hollow. A phantom slipping out of a glass body. The sound of it, a melody entirely of its own making has him shuddering to the core. Sylvain is see-through, and there is Linhardt, watching him from inside the gaps he’s spent years suturing. “That’s why I left home.”

“And did you find what you were looking for?” 

Always asking the right questions. Sylvain barely notices his own honesty.

“No.” His voice is a stray breath ghosting the outline of Linhardt’s lips. He presses their foreheads together, craning his neck, tilting his head, _anything_ and _everything_ if just to accommodate for the difference in their lives. The space between their bodies dissipates, but Sylvain still feels out of touch. 

All because the counterfeit blossoms needled into his skin are nothing more than a cheap imitation of what Linhardt has been growing with his own hands. Despite the pain, all Sylvain can do is spin ink into fantasies, myths of flowers that won’t ever wilt, scentless, indelicate little lies meant to tide reality over, if only for an instant. 

But maybe, _just_ maybe, Linhardt is good enough to grow life out of ill soil. 

“You want to have everything again, don’t you? The world and all its truths?” Yes _, yes_ , Linhardt prunes back the doubt from his body. Hand upon his cheek, he exorcises begonias out of Sylvain’s rotten heart, grows tulips in their stead, asters for patience and Queen Anne’s lace for sanctuary. 

His eyes trace the shape of Sylvain’s mouth, Cupid’s bow and heartstrings where they’re pulled taut into a line of tension between their chests. Linhardt’s intention fades into translucency, and for once, Sylvain can read him clearly. 

“Yes.” And _that_ is his truth. Simple and sincere. His smile is small and soft and entirely lacklustre, but it is all Sylvain has to give, and if Linhardt will have it, if Linhardt will have _him_ , there may yet be time. But before he can be laid to rest, there is something that needs to be done.

"Hey, you got any other place to be tonight?" 

Suddenly, Sylvain offers him a grin that is equal parts temptation and trouble. Anticipation and the flash of teeth that tells him _yes, this boy is a monster,_ and _yes, he will swallow me whole_ , a warning that falls on deaf ears. 

"Oh, Sylvain." Curling forwards and higher up, Linhardt closes the gap between them by a fraction of a breath, just enough to reflect that same danger back at Sylvain. His lips break into a smile, coy and sly and so very risky. Like a fox in a den of chickens, Linhardt steals the breath from his lungs when their noses touch and the shadow of his lips falls upon Sylvain’s own. "I’m here already, aren’t I?”

"You ready?"

When Sylvain had said there was something he wanted to do, Linhardt had been eager, perhaps a little too eager to accompany him. _This_ is hardly _his_ idea of an ideal date, but to deny Sylvain his pleasure _—impossible._

"Will one carton be enough?" His eyes glimmer dimly beneath the yellow-washed light of the lampposts, globe too dirty to emit anything more than a pallid shine. And Sylvain breaks out into a smirk that arrests Linhardt's attention, draws his gaze up to amber eyes, narrow and catlike. The arm that coils around his waist is firm, and then their chests are pressed together, Sylvain's breath honeydew inside his mouth.

"Guess we'll have to find out, hm?"

And that, they do.

The truth is not as bitter as Sylvain had feared it to be. Linhardt’s lips are smooth and sweet like sugar, warmer, too, than the rest of his body. 

They move slowly, tenderly against the backdrop of Sylvain's childhood home, against windows startled awake by the sound of eggshells cracking open. Somewhere far out of their mind, a door opens, but before Linhardt can catch himself falling, Sylvain's tugging him back onto his motorcycle. 

“You taste terrible. Have you been smoking again?” 

“I might have had a smoke or two. For courage.”

In a mess of bleeding headlights smeared against the canvas of the city, between the rush of the scent of leather, Sylvain’s back against his cheek, and the bright tones of his laughter, wild and unruly, all else fades into obscurity.

**Author's Note:**

> You can still download the zine for free at https://drive.google.com/file/d/1PypSNCZkEySfwair2Fp5XVrpXiMw6BC2/view 💕💕
> 
> Going back to my rarepair roots was an absolute blast and I cannot thank the mods enough for letting me write something so incredibly self-indulgent ;; I have strongly considered expanding this AU into something more meaty, but I unfortunately can't make any promises given my current schedule. Until then, I leave you all with thoughts of Sylvain and Linhardt being happy and domestic and grotesquely lovey-dovey!!!


End file.
